


Muted shores

by pirripipi



Series: Running without shoelaces [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, breakdown mention, but they are not mean to each other, fluff?, is a little bit serious but I think you can call it fluff, not angst tho, they are coworkers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10777074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirripipi/pseuds/pirripipi
Summary: “Hamilton," Jefferson singsongs. "hope you are ready, darling, because I'm going to ride you like a– What are you doing?"





	Muted shores

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note, I headcanoned Thomas a couple of years older than Alex, so they don't go by canon age difference.

Jefferson walks like there’s music on his veins. Nice, fitting suit, breath fresh like he brushed his teeth barely some minutes ago, overconfident steps that echo through the hall. Just out of work and ready to go. He will not tell out loud, has none to tell this really, but there is something deeply satisfying about going to Hamilton's flat. Probably the promise of a revitalising and destressing frig. Definitely the promise of a revitalising and de-stressing frig. It puts him in a good mood.

He goes up the stairs humming to himself, hands in his pockets and a smirk on his lips. The play is on and baby if he knows the script.

 

“Hamilton," he singsongs as he opens and closes the door behind him. "hope you are ready, darling, because I'm going to ride you like a– What are you doing?"

 

And then is when everything went to hell.

Hamilton’s flat is closer to being small than being big; one bedroom, one study and one bathroom, a square kitchen and a living room just opposite to the front door, something quite inconvenient if you asked Jefferson. That’s why he got no problem in finding Hamilton doing whatever that he was doing.

He made an unsettling picture; face down on the couch, shoes still on, wrapped up on a blanket like some kind of aggressive overexcitable caterpillar. Except there was no aggressiveness nor overexcitement on him now. He looked, as scary as it may sounds, empty.

 

There is a non-written rule, one of the thousands non-written rules that framed their relationship, that reads: if Hamilton goes home at his damn right time is to get ready to fuck.

Those times can be measured with one hand and had been proved to be quite something, so he always compels.

Rules are made to be followed so he didn't called, didn't texted, didn't even thought about it. He wasn't supposed to need to. Hadn't needed to a month into Hamilton giving him the key of his apartment. Not with both knowing where the blurry dangerous lines of their relationship laid and how to avoid them. Or so he thought.

Jefferson can not reconcile this lying figure with the Hamilton he is used to.

 

“hmmm” He groaned motionless.

 

_ ‘This is not part of the play.’ _ He panicked.

 

"Are you... sick or something?"

 

And it occurred to him for the first time, although not for the last, that maybe Hamilton needs a rest from time to time too. A funny thing to never think about someone.

There was a quiet moment of uncertainty in which the lying figure seemed to be contemplating something. Something personal and uncomfortable most likely, since those tend to be the thing we contemplate the most. All the same, when he talked again he gave no clue of what he was exactly thinking.

 

"I'm having a breakdown." he said pained, soulless, boneless, as if not strength is left on his body.

 

Jefferson got worried. More worried than he was before and certain more alarmed. That didn’t help him, really, not to remember how to speak, not to find where the blurry boundaries of their relationship laid now. So he stood there for longer than he should, thinking and doubting, and doubting and thinking.

And he does not remember feeling that much insecure when all of this started.

If there is something to know about Jefferson is that he is not good with people, not like this at least. Not when he has to play support.

There is a instant when the light at the night stand flickered and nothing happened. Seconds keeped piling up and Jefferson got none the wiser. Though maybe he went a little bit pale. He should do something, he knows.

Anything to get rid of this disturbing new picture of Hamilton he still can't accept. Say something, at least. Maybe even try to make him -god forgive him- talk.

But truth is, they don't have that kind of relationship, don't want to, and that would set a precedent he doesn't think is ready to set. And even if they did, he wouldn't still know what to do.

He is not good with people. Not like this.

So he does the only thing left to do when reaching a dead end.

 

"Should I leave?" Looking for a way out.

 

"I think that would be the best."

 

&&

 

He was half way down Hamilton’s flat, half way to his car, half way to leave this strange, putting off experience behind when he found the bakery. For the look of it it was almost it’s time to close, and for what he could see through the glass, the only thing left were the leftovers of a fruitful day. However he paused.

He stared at his watch, the inside of the bakery, his car just parked on the parking lot not far away, and the bakery again. Hamilton loved that bakery. It was quite curious that that was one of the little personal facts he got to know from Hamilton himself.

If he were in a position to judge, he would say the only reason Hamilton liked the shop was because it was conveniently close home and wasn’t astonishingly expensive.

But it was his favourite, nevertheless. And it still got some of those mini apple pies that he liked so much. He takes a step to keep going down his way. Stops. Flexes his fingers and huffs. ‘Oh my god’ he thinks exasperated with himself. He’s been so close to get away.

It couldn’t have passed more than twenty minutes before he was back to Hamilton’s.

 

"You know what? No."

 

He greets, enters and closes the door in a breath, not even caring to lock. He reaches the low coffé table in four strides as he says:

 

"You have not eaten since 5pm, so you are going to start with this." He carelessly leaves the sweets over the table. Hamilton barely unburies his head enough to be able to peek through one eye. Jefferson looks infinitely annoyed, angry even, in a comic, cartoonish way. He squats, pointing an accusatory finger towards Hamilton's face. "You're going to undo your shoes and drink the glass of water I'm going to bring you. Got it?" He stands quickly, turns over his heels, gestures, almost like dancing. Like he is holding too much energy inside for his own good.

 

"What-" Hamilton mutters more pained than confused.

 

"And then you are going to eat the rest of the dinner I'm about to make for both of us. 'Then I'll leave" He is pointing at him again, moving his feet, eyes to much open and to many tension on his shoulders.

 

Hamilton rises himself slightly up, just to check on the coffé table. He looks tired and sick. Feels tired and sick and slow, exasperatingly slow.

But Jefferson is not there anymore to check on how deeply confused he is.

He blinks, takes a deep breath. He sits himself warily and stays like this, to drained to inquire, to empty to eat.

 

Jefferson comes back with the water, talking to himself under his breath, puts it on his hand and says: "I'm not seeing you chewing" before leaving again.

 

It was surreal.

 

He let himself fall against the back of the couch with a defeated sigh, the glass already on his lips. It felt nice, fresh and invigorating, it could have almost distracted him from this situation. Whatever it was. He decided to feel just for now, let himself got adjusted.

 

Days later Hamilton will not be able to fully understand what was really going on then. Now, with his will gone and his head muddled and pounding he couldn't even hope to.

 

So he ate, against his wish, but ate nevertheless. And when the first bites were taken everything got easier. He needed this anyway. Needed to eat and needed from it to be the tiniest bit pleasurable.

 

&&

 

Of course he had to come back, hadn’t he. Of course he had to blew up his evening, gave up on being at his home by now, with a book, or a movie, or whatever he felt like doing in the privacy of his house. He just had to come back. Damn him, his luck and his conscience.

This is ridiculous. He is overstepping, he knows he is, and he can’t even imagine the amount of trouble he’ll have to face because of it.

He can’t hardly predict what is going to happen next.

He turns on the kitchen and throws a couple of bread slices to the pan because, apparently, Hamilton has no toaster. He set the fire low and went to check on the fridge.

This was a mistake. This was a mistake that is going to blow on his face.

Jumping out of the window never looked like a better option.

Who could blame him, really. This, the thing that he and Hamilton have going on, is supposed to be a stress-RELIEVING thing.

He is not good dealing with stress.

Still deep in thought, he picks up some eggs and closes the fridge.

Thinking about back then, he doesn’t remember been so nervous. He doesn’t remember much really.

He is overthinking this. He is overthinking this and this wasn’t supposed to be a thing to overthink.

And it had worked so good until now, so surprisingly good. He wasn’t expecting for them to keep this thing going for more than a month, there was just so much hate sex someone can have before getting bored.

But it lasted. And it wasn’t quite like the first time but it was nice. Better than nice.

And all of that, somehow, had brought him to this point. Had put him cooking a fucking dinner that is not even a dinner, because of course Hamilton wouldn’t have anything on his fridge that isn’t breakfast food. That damn man is not going to live until his fifties he- FUCK!

 

He has to stop his musings on behalf of saving the toasts; rushes the pan out of the fire, opens the windows and closes the door.

 

“Wonderful, and now I also made a fool of myself. Just wonderful” He allows himself a moment of weakness and a couple of deep breaths before going to pick up a new pan and more bread slices.

 

By the time he came back to the livingroom the kitchen smelled a little bit lees of burned bread and Hamilton had consume one of the two apple pies he brought.

 

“Thought I told you to eat.” He said, making room on the coffé table.

 

Hamilton looks at him bewildered, he seems better than before but still not quite present.

 

“I thought this one was for you?” Hamilton moves the pie to his right, where Jefferson presumes is going to be his place on the table. If Jefferson is touched, he doesn’t sais a thing.

  
  


“I made dinner.” He gives Hamilton his plate before sitting. It seems like Hamilton wants to say something. Commenting on the food, probably. A ‘thank you’ maybe, if he is lucky.

  
  


They watch tv in silence. Eat, and watch, and eat again. Minutes piling lazily, and though is not an unpleasant dinner it is like none they had shared before. He appreciates that as much as he hates it.

They are not used to be silent. Silence has a kind of intimacy that none of them allowed to themselves.

 

Silence held power.

 

The babble of the news fills the room in an almost soothing manner. The street outside is nearly quiet and the cushions are fluffy against his back. This was like no moment they had ever shared before.

Jefferson takes a sip of his water. Another. Breaths deep and steady a couple of times and takes another sip. He keeps eating in silence, barely savoring the food. Too self aware to focus. He squirms, what is going on now, this intimate silence, is something they have never experience. If he’s quite honest, is something he has not experience with anyone in a long time.

That’s what’s most unsettling. That he can have this kind of silence again. That he can have it with Hamilton above all people.

 

And Hamilton is immutable.

 

In the dim room, the light from the tv threw deep shadows over his face. He looked peaceful like that. Drained too. So drained it was painful to watch.

He is not sure what to make out of it.

He observes him eat without really realizing. Admires how he comes a little bit back to life with every bite. How his shoulders relax and his breathing turns steady. How he becomes present step by step.

 

Seeing the weight that was on him melt away is like seeing a flower bloom. And he wonders what could have brought him to that state in the first place.

It occurred to him that maybe it wasn’t an one-off. That maybe this was a part of Hamilton he hadn’t seen before. A side effect of burning so bright.

He doesn’t know what to feel about it. Doesn’t matter really. Because Hamilton has finished his meal, and seems to be fully back on earth.

He awaits for a change in the mood, a break in the quietness, a loss of the intimacy. But does not happen.He doesn’t ask him to leave and Jefferson doesn’t feel like moving neither.

He just buries himself on the back of the sofa, still wrapped on the blanket, with a half empty glass of water on his hands. He looks transfixed by whatever is in the news.

 

He is beautiful like that.

 

Still and present, like the calm sea. Like the tinkling of shells cradled by the tide. Like the non ending rocking of the waves. He always thought Hamilton was a storm, but maybe he was more like the sea. Maybe.

 

“Da Bin Choi has so much potential” Hamilton says suddenly, and jefferson tears his gaze away just before being caught watching.

It takes him a moment to know what is he talking about.

“She did an amazing job bearing in mind that it was her first Worlds, pity of those falls.” He replies almost mechanically. He has had this conversation before, he is just not sure with who. He didn’t knew Hamilton liked ice skating. He does not know a lot of things about him.

 

“Can’t wait to see how her career develops, honestly.”

 

’ _ ‘We are just filling the silence.’ _ he realizes.

 

“Yeah. Also the dress was beautiful.”

 

“Agree.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! One last thing, English is not my first language so if you find some outrageous mistake feel free to let me know.

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, hope it was enjoyable anyway.


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